


Playback

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sex Tape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want me, all to yourself.” Sherlock leaned in viciously and pressed his nose against John’s cheek. “You want me pixelated, recorded, to play back again and again. You want to know that I’m yours alone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playback

“The public just won’t relent,” John said, easing his tea back onto the small sitting room table before attacking the keys of his laptop, one letter at a time.

It was a quiet morning which was a blessing for John and an inconvenience for Sherlock. Having just wrapped up a case that had given them the runaround for the better part of a month, John was properly and predictably knackered. Sherlock too felt the pull of oblivion against his eyelids, heard the rumbling in his belly, now that his body finally acknowledged what it needed in order to continue functioning..

It was somewhat heartening when Sherlock would crash in such a grand manner; it would do him well to remember that he was indeed a human being in need of nourishment and rest just like the rest of the world. John had managed to get half of an omelette and some tea into him before he collapsed on the couch, half-heartedly fighting off the urge to sleep.

“About what?” came the relaxed, nearly languid sigh from the couch where Sherlock reclined in a patch of sun. That was a good sign; he was relenting to the draw of slumber which hopefully meant that John could join him, allow the detective to curl around him as if silver lace, as John had become aware that Sherlock was often wont to do. And he enjoyed it, so much, being swallowed up by the larger, leaner body; being held onto for dear life. John felt like he was suffocating in Sherlock during those rare times and oh, what a perfect way to die.

Morbid thoughts, truly, and John halted himself before he strayed any further into that dark territory. Those were the thoughts of the hopelessly infatuated, the unrequited lovers. This was very, _very_ much requited and though he acknowledged his infatuation (if only to himself) it certainly wasn’t a dark thing. The portion of himself he’d carved out for Sherlock was sunlight and warmth, all wrapped up in a close bundle of nerves. They’d yet to find that proper footing, that mindspace where they were both content with what they knew of how the other felt.

John briefly flicked his gaze over his flatmate, taking in the manner in which the bright light cut severe angles in shadow across his skin.

Turning back to his computer, John finished typing his sentence and hit the ‘enter’ button with a bit more gusto that was warranted. “Apparently seeing you on the eleven o’clock news isn’t enough, our fans-”

“ _My_ fans,” Sherlock countered lazily, sliding a hand liquidly over his face, fingers waving as though gelatin. A side of John’s lip quirked; Sherlock was slowing, quietly segueing into a quiet space, calm.

“Our fans want me to turn this into a _vlog_ ,” John sat back against his chair and took up his tea once more, gracing Sherlock with a patient, appreciative gaze. He’d taken to looking at Sherlock when he could and did so openly now. As he’d seen the man’s body spread out naked and open for him _several_ times over the past few months (though not as often as John would have liked, to be sure) he felt it only fair that he be allowed to pore over Sherlock’s clothed figure as well.

John did so enjoy how lovely his flatmate looked divested of all clothing, but there was something about the way fabric contoured to his skin, the contrast of dye to porcelain epidermis that was so pleasing to the eye. Resting his tongue against his lower lip, John slid his attention languidly up to Sherlock’s face, all the while attempting not to wonder when Sherlock would allow John the pleasure of being between his legs again. It didn’t do well to crave this man whose whims were so incredibly unpredictable, whose predilection for being absorbed for days at a time was well known.

Sherlock swiveled his hips a bit and torqued his head as to make eye contact. “A vlog?”

“Mmm, stands for video blog. They’re dying for me to get you on camera answering their questions.” His tone was distinctly salacious and only because he knew what Sherlock’s resounding reaction with be. Sherlock detested finding himself on the telly, thought it quite unacceptable when clips of him began popping up on YouTube.

For someone so maniacally egotistical, it had come as a surprise to John that the man did not under any circumstances enjoy being photographed or recorded. “Really? Not even when you’re proving someone wrong? When you’re exceedingly right? You wouldn’t want a hard copy of that to watch whenever you’d like?”

“John,” Sherlock had responded, “I’m always right. I happen to be this brilliant all of the time, whyever would I need a _reminder_.” That answer had resulted not in wave of anger from John but in John’s body pressing up into Sherlock’s and the two of them having quite a nice snog indeed.

Still, the idea that the public wanted _more_ of Sherlock, wanted to see what made the man - nay - the enigma tick... how could John blame them, really? Many of the questions that people had suggested they’d like the answers to were banal and disappointing: what is your favorite ice cream flavor? what books are on your bookshelf? have you ever been to Asia? who is your favorite serial killer?

And that last one, not boring so much as a touchy subject. Surely the detective _would_ have a favored serial killer, but best keep that between the two of them. There was no need to go lending credence to the rumor that Sherlock Holmes was indeed a sociopath.

But how could John blame them for wanting a still or moving image captured electronically, replayed whenever their hearts desired. John’s stomach lurched pleasantly at the thought; _who in the world wouldn’t crave that of their lover_?

Sherlock rolled his eyes and promptly relaxed back into his former state, staring at the ceiling. “Dull. Absolutely not.”

“That’s what I thought,” John murmured and sipped the last dregs from his mug. He couldn’t help it when the idea filtered it’s way into his mind. It was more than alluring, the notion of having Sherlock on tape, to rewind and watch whenever he wanted. John hesitated in his thinking for a moment, wondering if wanting a memento as such might be considered creepy or invasive. No, he supposed not. People made recordings of their loved ones every day. First day of school, weddings, vacations, and so on and so forth.

And to be able to pause on the man’s image, stare at the curve of his upper lip for as long as he liked. John could properly map out the freckles on his skin, could steal away to his laptop and slow Sherlock’s movements to watch as his muscles stretched and contorted. John’s mind swam drunkenly with the possibilities; he couldn’t help the thrill that ran down his spine at the fantasy of having a version of Sherlock he could stop and start, slow and quicken and _pause_ to his liking.

To _halt_ him.

A startlingly intimate thought.

His gaze was drawn back to Sherlock; this required much more thought than a simple midday, exhausted rumination. “About ready for a kip?”

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock hummed and allowed his head to loll to the side; his eyes were glassy though his lips curled into a delicate smile. They were still figuring their way around this thing between them; Sherlock, for his part, was treading heavier than John was. “Will you be joining me?”

“Would you _like_ me to join you?”

Sherlock was silent for a very long moment. He took a low breath, blinked and then smiled fully. “Of course.” He unfurled from the sofa, legs stretching to the floor and when he stood he wobbled a bit.

John caught him round the waist and together they walked back to Sherlock’s bedroom and fell asleep, John for three hours, Sherlock for nineteen.

\---

A week without a case on and John found Sherlock to be surprisingly amorous. _This is a steep learning curve indeed,_ John thought as Sherlock had taken it upon himself to walk straight into the loo whilst the doctor was brushing his teeth and twine his arms around his waist. There was a rather starchy way that Sherlock went about showing his affection; clean, cut, hasty movements, tight, squeezing grasps and hugs.

There were sudden bursts of undeniable affection. Sherlock leapt across the room to place a chaste, closed-mouth kiss before bounding back to his composition. A hand slipped under his t-shirt while he stood at the sink washing up; fingers in the loop of John’s belt as he climbed the steps before Sherlock. John took it all with surprising ease, adjusting to the way Sherlock responded to him. It was quite nice, actually, knowing how much he was wanted, knowing how much Sherlock wished to be close to him.

The salacious gleam in Sherlock’s eyes when he would reach for the zip of John’s trousers, the manner in which his hair tousled so gloriously after spending long minutes on his knees with John’s cock in his mouth.

For all of the sporadic encounters they’d had before ‘The Cloistered Caper’ (as John had taken to calling it in his blog) this new, sexual, wanting Sherlock was a surprise. A very pleasant surprise. It was become a nearly daily thing, their falling into bed together. They hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t categorized it and it was wearing at John’s mind.

Sherlock was curious and patient, harried at other times but always very inquisitive as to the secrets John’s body harbored. He’d test each one of his teeth against left nipple and then right, cataloging each of his reactions. Sherlock gave himself very, very willingly to John and for his part, John attempted not to allow the overwhelming tidal wave of emotion he felt at knowing Sherlock’s concession ever etch itself onto his face.

It wouldn’t do well to have Sherlock know how much he felt for him, how unabashedly. The thoughts drifted through his mind easily, recalling how Sherlock looked, how Sherlock sounded and reacted. The thoughts kept him sane on crazy days and calmed him when he felt his tethers breaking. John wanted to capture it, all of it.

‘ _Because I bloody well love him,_ ’ John thought to himself reproachfully. ‘ _Bloody buggering fuck this wasn’t supposed to happen but I love him. Bollocks and bollocks and buggering fuck_.’

\---

One thoroughly unremarkable evening, a bony chin dug into his shoulder. “I believe it goes without saying that from here on, I simply won’t do without you,” before Sherlock had spun across the room to the refrigerator. There was no prompting, nothing on, nothing that John could think of that had brought that on. They’d spent the evening eating cold Chinese and refiling old case notes.

And instead of sharing in kind, instead of responding with an admission of his own, John had turned, one hand thrust into his trouser pocket and the other on the back of his neck. “I understand, you know, why people want to... why they want you on...”

John just couldn’t get it out of his mind. Sherlock, recorded in the flesh. Sherlock there to be replayed for his eyes instead of just in his mind. Sherlock open and wanting and real. Whenever he wanted. Simply _because he wanted_.

Sherlock worked his jaw and back and forth. “Hm?”

“I understand why people want you on film for themselves but...” John couldn’t quite form the words, didn’t know how to ask, didn’t even know where to begin. He regretted saying anything at all and in the exact same moment didn’t regret a thing. There was something fragile between them even if they only admitted it in the soft glances they shared, but it was there. And John didn’t want to do thing one to shatter it. Not with how deeply he felt, he wouldn’t.

He just wouldn’t do without Sherlock, either. He wanted him as far deep into his soul as it would allow, he wanted him forever, he wanted to crawl into his skin and never emerge, he _wanted_ and _needed_ and had to have.

“You wouldn’t like that, either.” Sherlock nodded slowly, light dawning on his features.

John’s voice ran away without him, his lips spilling out words he wasn’t quite sure he should admit but he was helpless to stop them. “I just, I understand and I-”

“Ahhhh,” Sherlock drawled breathily, crowding into John’s personal space. “You want me, all to yourself.” Sherlock leaned in viciously and pressed his nose against John’s cheek. “You want me pixelated, recorded, to play back again and again. You want to know that I’m yours alone.”

John’s cheeks flamed, outing him completely. “I-”

“John,” Sherlock lips against the shell of his ear. “You have all of me, whenever you’d like. You could have just _asked_.” And the way he said it, slightly condescending, slightly trite, caused John to flinch and step back.

He turned on his heel for a moment, pacing away before turning to round on Sherlock. “Right, right because... because I know where we stand, in all of this. I know what’s, what’s allowed, do I?” Hands on his hips. “That’s not how these things work, alright? Not with me, we don’t just fumble through forever, we’re... Where do I stand?”

And there it was, cap off, emotions spilling without regard, spilling everywhere. There was no way to recork it and John felt sick and needy and angry and desperate. Sherlock’s lips moved briefly before any sound emitted. “With me,” Sherlock said, confused.

John licked his lips and looked down at his shoes. “And where do _we_ stand?” The voice that spoke the words sounded a little lost, a little desperate, a little too eager.

“Oh, this is the _talk_ , is it?” Sherlock asked with a little sneer, his hands fluttering about in the air.

“Don’t you,” John said meagerly before puffing up. “Don’t you think we should have it? Somewhere between the shagging and the sleeping in each others' beds and the living together we somehow missed it.”

“John,” Sherlock said in a withering tone.

“Is that... we are, we are something, aren’t we? I need to know, that's why we need to have this _talk_.”

Sherlock ran a hand across his mouth before sparing John a brief glance. “I don’t know how this _works_ ,” he admitted quickly.

“What?” John asked.

“I don’t... I understand the shagging and the fucking and the sleeping together; what I don’t know is how to give you what you _want_.” Long, spindly fingers twined into his hair and tugged, hard. John watched him pace back and forth for a moment, his own brow creased in confusion.

John almost reached out to stop the manic movement but he resisted. “What I want... there’s nothing more you can give... I just want to know...”

Sherlock stopped shortly. “John-”

John knew he was about to break and he didn’t want to ask but the words clawed their way up his throat, the words coming strained and thick. “Is that are we... is this...”

When Sherlock looked at him, it drained the color from the detective's face. And John knew it, there on his face, everything he’d been terrified to admit. John’s teeth sunk into the inner skin of his bottom lip hard and waited.

“John...” Sherlock whispered and took a step towards the doctor. “We stand together and I won’t do without you,” The words came with quiet ferocity. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, stunned at himself, frightened of the passion behind his admission, terrified of what John would do. He tried to rein it all in, replace his usual stoic mask but couldn’t seem to manage to slip it all the way on.

John waited a beat, two and then crossed the room with confident strides, fisting his hand in the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, bringing their lips together for a bruising kiss. Teeth clicked and knocked, tongue slid, lips pulled and pressed until Sherlock tore away for air, still wide-eyed, still a bit shell shocked.

John nodded, throat catching, air stubbornly not filing his lungs. “Right, right,” a rush of breath in and out and then, “I don’t just want to record you, I want to record... us.” John’s vision shivered as he lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock’s.

Sherlock looked at John from under the veil of thick eyelashes and blinked slowly. “Yes, alright John.”

\---

The camcorder was refurbished and quite small. John hadn’t used any recording device since before he returned to London and he attempted not to look shocked when the clerk at the electronics store had told him to purchase a memory card to record onto. _When did cassettes of all things go by the wayside?_

“What’ll you be filming?” the younger man had asked offhandedly.

John had been fully prepared to field questions as to what he’d be doing with the camcorder and doled out, “Niece’s third birthday,” easily while he turned the device over in his hands. “This’ll do nicely,” he said and handed over his credit card.

A thrill ran through him. They were doing this and it excited John to a level he was nearly uncomfortable with; someone nearly-forty shouldn’t have become semi-hard at the thought of recording he and his partner having sex. Not that it was the kinkiest thing John had ever done, they weren’t even close to that area by _miles_. The fact that Sherlock was acquiescing to something he deemed so loathsome and just for _him_ , well that spoke tomes about how Sherlock felt in return to John and _that_ , well that was everything.

The skip in his step as he made his way back to Baker Street couldn’t be helped. Sherlock had texted him, letting him know that he was “Waiting impatiently,” back at the flat and he knew what that meant: loads of pacing, temptation for a cigarette, fingers woven through his hair to tug. (He’d also texted, “Come home now,” and “I refuse to take off my trousers myself,” but he ignored those.)

He grabbed a latte at Speedys and drank it slowly, marinating in the knowledge that he was about to video record he and Sherlock fucking. _Making love?_ his brain helpfully supplied but he pushed that brashly aside as he burned his tongue on a particularly enthusiastic pull at his coffee. _But this is awful, innit, being in love with a man who can’t love, innit?_ , his brain taunted once more.

And when had his thoughts taken on a cockney tone? The caffeine, John supposed and batted those thoughts straight away.

He finished his latter just as he still fought to press down his apparent ceaseless internal monologue. The four strides to the door to 221 took ages, it felt and when he finally turned the key in the lock he crossed the threshold with a heavy sigh.

-not expecting an armful of consulting detective. Not even nearly.

“Oy, Sherlo-”

“Ages,” Sherlock gasped as he nipped at John’s chin. “Over eight hours, with this on my mind?” Sherlock sucked a hard circle into the side of John’s neck. “Cruel, you’re a cruel man.”

Indignant as he tipped his head back, “I’m not.”

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock hummed, amused. “Oh but you are, you _are_ , upstairs, if you please. And if you don’t, well,” and with that, Sherlock tipped his chin down and gave John a faux-menacing glare.

John rolled his eyes but made a point of mounting the steps two at a time, feeling his partner on his back, the bag with the camcorder bouncing against his thigh. When he entered the sitting room, he tossed the bag rather haphazardly at the sofa in order to receive an armful of amorous Sherlock. “Oy- you- wha-”

“Eight. Bloody. Hours.” Sherlock punctuated each word with a kiss and John couldn’t help roll his eyes.

John pressed against his chest and pushed away, “Might I get the camera all ready? Seems you’re set to go but if we’re-”

“John,” Sherlock huffed, utterly put out and spun to toss himself onto the sofa. As far as sex was concerned, it wasn’t totally unreasonable that Sherlock wanted instant gratification; John had given him no reason in the past to assume that the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

John started towards the sofa himself, “Sherlock! The, the camera! Watch... it...” But Sherlock’s hands were already working to unearth the device, unwrap it and press the memory card in whilst booting it up. He torqued a wrist and focused the lens back on John as though he was an expert with the thing.

“Not, not, Sherlock, come off it!” Hand in front of him, John blocked the camera from his face.

“You’re not comfortable being filmed fully clothed when, in mere minutes I’ll have you completely nude and spread against my bed? Doctor Watson, come off it yourself,” there was a salacious tinge to his voice and John was powerless against the smile and blush that graced his face.

“I appreciate the forethought with the tripod, knowing you wouldn’t have a steady hand, yes?” Sherlock asked, swirling the camcorder around on two fingers, over his head. “Is this even on?” he asked, sounding entirely bored.

John stepped forth and snatched it back, turning on heel and walking towards the kitchen. “It is, actually,” and he spun and laughed and he walked backwards towards Sherlock’s room whilst simultaneously keeping the camera trained on the detective. “Bring the tripod you git and get your arse in here.”

The thud from Sherlock’s feet hitting the floor was his answer. John nearly shrieked with glee as Sherlock tore after him, unbuttoning his shirt all the while. It was irrationally exciting; it was so unlike Sherlock to indulge in flights of fancy such as this. And for what it was worth, John didn’t normally giggle like a schoolgirl but Sherlock’s alacrity caused pure mirth to bubble up in his throat .

When he emerged in his bedroom Sherlock was shirtless but managed in moments to erect the tripod at the side of the bed closest towards the door; snatching the recorder out of John’s hands with a fake swipe to the left and swiveling it onto the bolt with significant twist. “Now, I believe you’re behind, are you not?” The gesture he made to his own bare chest was exuberant and he stood back significantly, watching as John took a step back towards the bed and pulled his sweater and vest off of his chest.

“You know,” John managed as he shrugged his head through the neck hole, “I never thought you’d want _this_.” John wasn’t sure if he was referring to himself or the filming or the sex but still, Sherlock answered.

Rounding the bed and joining John on the left side, Sherlock settled his hands gently on John’s hips. “I never thought I’d _need_ _you_.” Sherlock smiled slightly, blinked, “I suppose we’re both lacking in anticipating one another, now take off your trousers.”

“You were complaining about having to take off your own, you sort this out,” John said petulantly, even as his skin sang with the danger of defying something that Sherlock wanted. “Put on a good show, yeah?” John asked breathily, a challenge and it wasn’t a moment before Sherlock’s fingers attacked the give in John’s slacks, undid it, allowed them to pool at his feet so he could step out of them.

Sherlock grinned and tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of John’s neck. “Is that how we’re playing this, _dear_ ,” the word was a jab, and Sherlock took John’s chin between his fingers, turned both of their gazes towards the camera. “There’s no show to put on, I’m an open book John. I’m an entire transparent tome, don’t you _see_?”

And the kiss was meant to be vicious, it was meant to be a reprimand but when Sherlock caught his lips, it was all slow, languid. Molasses thick and trip-time, a gorgeous slide of tongue against willing tongue. “I-” John gasped against his mouth. “I, I-” And he needed, he _needed_ to hear it desperately.

Sherlock tore his mouth away, a fraction of his lips against John’s cheek. “Stop it, you’re not without confidence, you don’t need me telling that you’re all of it. In my mouth and hands, head and very-nearly-mind you terrible person. You’re _everywhere_. I’m certainly not helpless without you but _very nearly_ so.”

It was as though someone had kicked the oxygen from the room. John’s fingers tickled up his neck from pinky to index, slowly. “Oh _you_ , you, you’re-”

“Trousers, John,” Sherlock breathed impatiently, meeting his gaze, the threads of their irises nearly wiring together.

John’s hands fell to the clasp of Sherlock’s trousers and stilled. “I’m the one-”

“Don’t say, just _do_.”

When Sherlock’s trousers and pants fell to his ankles the detective side-stepped them elegantly, more so than should’ve been allowed under the circumstances. Once divested of his bottoms, John crowded him until his knees touched the edge of the mattress. “Are you going to give in, or do I have to make you?”

“Oh no,” Sherlock grinned as he fell back against the bed with John following.

The doctor crawled over the lankier man on elbows, legs astride Sherlock’s and looked down upon him fondly. They stilled and John sighed, swiped Sherlock’s fringe off of his forehead and sighed again. “I’m not sorry I can’t hide all of this, I know you’re not...” John mentioned when they were face to face.

Sherlock’s head tossed against the sheets for a moment before stilling himself quite suddenly. “No need.” With a twist of his hips and a torque of his arms Sherlock reversed their positions, John’s arse bouncing back on the bed and Sherlock nudged his nose beneath John’s chin. “No need.”

The kiss Sherlock pressed to John’s mouth was tender, the backs of his fingers trailing against John’s cheek. It was easy, to give himself over directly to this, to selfishly receive all of Sherlock’s affection, to bask in it. It wasn’t often that the man went _so slow_ and when he did, John couldn’t help but be swept along, be swept up in him. Sherlock took a moment to trail his teeth against John’s cheekbone and John took a moment to somersault just a bit deeper in love.

For a moment, their cocks slotted together, the detective's hips rolling slowly against John’s, the both of them taking a moment to revel in the heat between them, the hardness.

The bite of a lip, a grunt and Sherlock slammed a hand against the headboard in aroused frustration.

Fingers curled against Sherlock’s shoulders and pressed until he sat back up against his heels. “Over, you,” John whispered and the detective shimmied himself back up against the headboard. John’s head tipped to the side and then he shook it, tugging Sherlock until his upper back was against the pillows that has slid down the bed.

“You are fucking _lovely_ like this,” came John’s scratchy whisper, as though he didn't mean for Sherlock to hear it. A little louder he said, “Positively gorgeous, ridiculously unfair.”

John winked cheekily and knelt between Sherlock’s legs and hitched his thighs up as far as would allow before pressing him up. “Yes, oh god, yes please,” Sherlock managed to croak, even as he took a few thick swallows at knowing what was coming.

The panting, unrelentingly gorgeous being beneath him pressed his hips up in time with the hands that dug into the duvet. “Yes!” The flat of John’s tongue slid up the back of Sherlock’s thigh, gathering the sweat, sucking just beneath his knee, too hard.

And then suddenly John’s tongue slipped against the tight ring of muscle; the resulting shock that ran through the detective’s body was an absolute drug, shook John’s whole frame and he did it again, slower, rested the tip just along the top and pressed down _slightly_. Even as he did, his lips curled into a grin, top teeth digging slightly into the top of his tongue.

Sherlock’s hair tossed back and forth over the pillowcase, wide brushstrokes over a cotton canvas and John was torn between leaning forward and digging his teeth into his carotid and brushing his cheek along the curve of his arse. Reaching up and around, John slid two fingers down the heft of Sherlock’s cock humming, the vibrations causing Sherlock’s jaw to clench and his hips to buck.

John couldn’t help humming himself, tipped his chin down and opened his mouth , flat of his tongue moving slowly against Sherlock’s opening, very nearly lapping, _needing_ it. Tips of fingers dug into the heavy muscles at the insides of the man’s thighs, holding him tight to his face. It was quite magnificent, when he thought about it, how much he loved having his tongue buried in Sherlock, how much he enjoyed turning him right inside out.

There was no stopping the hand that skated hard over the plane of Sherlock’s abdomen, tips of fingers mapping around the muscles, Sherlock cartography. He was a beautiful man, truly and he in turn made John feel like a beautiful man. As penance he repaid with his tongue and lips, his cock and fingers, made Sherlock remove himself from his whirlwind of a mind and focus on nothing, nothing at all except the synapses firing off in his pleasure center.

John lapped leisurely at Sherlock’s hole, slid his hand around the bed until Sherlock latched into him and curled their fingers together in a tight hold. With his other hand he stroked himself, hard, for a few moments, his chest somehow managing to hold the brunt of the other man’s weight..

Sherlock’s coccyx rested against John’s chest and he took a moment to curl an arm around his thigh, teased him open with the tips of two fingers, sunk in as far as he could possibly reach. “Yeah?” John asked as fingernails dug between John’s knuckles.

“Ohhhhhh absolutely,” came his keen and managed to bounce his hips up a bit. John couldn’t help but laugh at the man’s blatant neediness. Gently, John laid him back down on the bed and shifted up to lay beside as Sherlock puddled boneless. “John...” he gritted out, nearly growled. “I’d very much like you inside of me, immediately.”

John grinned, such sweet words coming from Sherlock; it was as close to coy as the man ever managed. For a moment he leaned down and swiped at Sherlock’s cock with his tongue, laved over the glans and gathered the precome on his tongue before leaning back up to indulge Sherlock in a deep kiss; the other man growled against him, twining his hand around John’s neck to hold him there.

When he pulled back, breathless and dizzy, Sherlock was grinning. With a roll of his eyes, John prepared himself and then moved back between Sherlock’s thighs. “Like this, yeah?” Once more he slid two fingers in, moving deeply but languidly, no rhythm.

“Like this, I like to _see_ you,” and fingers dug into John’s hip, scrambled for purchase as John pressed the head of his cock against him.

As always, he waited for Sherlock to give the initial pressure and when he did, John pressed in, stuttered his hips and pressed further. Against, Sherlock’s palm twisted up, scrambling for John’s. It was sweet, John’s absolute favorite moment in life, the moment when he was flush with Sherlock’s arse, that first, warm slide in.

Sherlock held him snugly and let out an enormous, heaving breath of relief. “Joh-yes.” He canted his hips just so, pressing right against Sherlock’s prostate, gave him a moment and then slid out to the tip. John managed to hold there for as long as his body would allow before sliding back in to the hilt. John pressed his thumbprint into the other man's right hip over and over, voiding the area of blood, leaving a white ghost of his print before the blood rushed back to claim the spot.

Over and over. He wanted to be here, inside Sherlock, _for hours_. And oh, the way Sherlock looked at him, pupils entirely blown, body craving John’s. “This is where we stand,” Sherlock hissed fiercely. “ _This_ is where we stand, John,” and he squeezed John’s hand so desperately hard that John was almost sure his bones would snap.

It felt utterly marvelous.

Sherlock reached out and began pulling desperately at his cock, rubbed his thumb over the glans, smearing himself with the copious precome that had beaded there.

Choked sounds in the back of John’s throat at the way Sherlock’s neck arched off of the bed. Desperate keens from Sherlock’s lips; his hips thrust hard, pressed desperately into Sherlock as he felt his orgasm spiral and pool at the base of his spine. “Sherlock, Sherlock, oh god-”

Sherlock spasmed and came against his stomach, his chest, very nearly his neck. John reached down and dragged two fingers through it all and then came himself with a silent shout. Slumping back on his heels, he slipped out a bit, “Christ almighty, Sherlock, you’re very nearly too much.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed lazily. “Or not nearly enough. Never enough."

“Yes, yes, or that.” John shivered out and went about cleaning the two of them with a discarded vest that was half under the bed; he tossed it back towards the bathroom and closed the door to Sherlock’s room, sealing in the heat and the scent of sex. He returned to bed on wobbly legs, shifted his body right against the other man.

Sherlock was a mess against the mattress, one arm tossed carelessly above his head, the other thrown palm-up across John’s stomach. “I do believe you’ve successfully managed to debauch me entirely,” Sherlock said breathlessly.

John just laughed, swiping a hand across his sweaty brow. Sherlock caught the movement out of the corner of his eye; with surprising grace and speed Sherlock pushed himself up on an elbow to lean in and bite at John’s collarbone. Another chuckle burbled out of him as he twined an arm around Sherlock’s waist and held him tightly, close.

Sherlock’s nose pressed into the side of John’s neck and he released a long, warm puff of breath against the skin there. “When shall we watch it?” He gave it a moment and then flicked his tongue just beneath John’s ear.

John glanced up at the small camera, light still glowing a brilliant red and twisted to place a kiss in Sherlock’s wild mop of hair. He’d just about forgotten that they’d been performing in front of a camera and his heart thudded hard in his chest as he thought about actually _watching_ the film _with_ Sherlock. “I didn’t think you... I mean, I didn’t-”

“That thing you do with your tongue,” Sherlock smeared into his neck. “I want to know how you do it. I made certain that you were at a perfect angle performing to get a clear view of exactly what you do with your mouth-”

“Sherlock! This wasn’t meant for you to... experiment with and you couldn’t possibly have known I would...!” He could feel his cheeks flare with heat and reflexively he attempted to twist away a bit.

“Oh but John,” he perched himself up so he was staring directly down at John, pin him in place. “If only you knew how it made me _feel_.”

A shy smirk tugged at the right side of John’s mouth and he flicked his gaze back to meet Sherlock’s. “Yeah?”

“God, yes,” Sherlock murmured as he flopped back down on top of John.

John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and held him there, against a chest beneath which his heart felt full to bursting. John contemplated telling him everything, in that instant, but was completely certain that once they watched the video, Sherlock would read it all over his face once again.

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks, as always, to Robyn.


End file.
